


The Crosswinds of Fate

by ASOUEfan



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV)
Genre: Aged up characters, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, F/M, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Its all so nice till the Beard and the Hair show up, Kids with bruised knees, Mild threat of kidnapping, Mild threat of violence, Only Bad Beginning happened, Papa Olaf - Freeform, Post-Canon, Pregnancy, Tender!Olaf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-12 03:06:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19123300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASOUEfan/pseuds/ASOUEfan
Summary: At 25, Violet had not expected to be married with two children, and a third nearly due. Olaf had not expected his theatrical career to become so successful, with his own financial backing and with his newest production debut'ing, leaves his wife at home for the evening to rest. However, mid way through the performance he receives a call from Violet, and two sinister house guests threatening her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't sleep because there were mosquitos in my room, and I had this idea so, yeah.

Violet stood at the deep enamel sink, her hands hidden in the soap suds as she rinsed the glasses from dinner. She was glad of the summer sun keeping the evening warm, and though it was late and near bedtime for the boys, they were enjoying the extra daylight to their advantage. Violet heard the crack of wooden swords and she looked up out of the window watching them play, though the eldest struggled in that he was 6 and his brother was 3 and not much of a worthy opponent in his pirate games. The younger one ran into the teepee Violet had insisted Olaf keep, when they renovated the yard from uninspiring concrete to at least have a lawn and line the porch with flowers.

She placed the dripping glass on the drying rack and rubbed her hands on a tea towel, tucking it in the handle of the kitchen cupboard, even this small amount of bending over making her back hurt. She rubbed her hand on the painful nerve caught just to the left of her spine, familiar by now with this late stage of pregnancy and the aches and pains that came with it.

Olaf smiled from the doorway at his very pregnant wife, feeling once again the pride swelling in his chest at his ability to create such a sight, gulping down the last of his coffee. His long eyebrow furrowed in concern when he noticed her wincing expression. “Does it hurt?” He asked, abandoning the cup on the kitchen island as he went immediately to her side, touching his hand to her belly and feeling for tightenings. “If you don't want me to go tonight -“

“No, Olaf it’s nothing. Just a bit of backache,” Violet shook her head, putting her hand over his reassuringly. She gestured to the chair propping the back door open and he supported her over to it, his doubt twingeing when she groaned as she sat herself down.

A grumble escaped his throat. “Then stop _doing_ so much. I don't care if this place is a dump. You have cargo on board.” Olaf leant on the back of the chair with one hand as he bent over and caressed her belly again. He couldn't get enough of it, of her. It wouldn't be long that another screaming infant would share their bedroom and these quiet moments admiring her would be pierced with noise.

“I’ve noticed,” She huffed.

He checked his watch, it was curtains up in under two hours. There was so much he still had to do; yesterday the staging for the third act had yet to be painted and there was a problem with the mayors wig not fitting - not to mention going over his lines one more time. His lips twitched as he straightened, being pulled in two directions which both needed his undivided attention. “You’re sure nothings happening …,” Olaf demanded more firmly.

Violet nodded, catching his fingers in her hand and kissing them lightly. “Yes. Go. Its opening night. Once the boys are in bed I’ll put my feet up. Promise.” She yawned as she glanced out the back door, ever watchful over their children, even when all she wanted to do was lie down for a while.

Olaf kissed the top of her head. “It’ll be worth it,” He assured her as he turned away, grabbing his jacket - a blazer with tails because that was more theatrical than a regular blazer, folding it over his arm. “The critics reviews tonight will bring in even more theatre-goers _dying_ to enjoy the spectacle of Count Olaf,” He continued, his arm flourishing in the air with swooping bravado, “Renowned ac- _tor_ and veteran of the theatre in the flesh! In his new production of -“

“They can keep their hands and eyes off your flesh, thank you very much!” Violet called, tossing the tea towel at him making him hop to one side with a wolfish grin, creeping back over to her with a wicked gleam as he scooped her up off the chair into his arms to kiss her hungrily. She moaned into his mouth and held onto him, wondering how he could encourage such lust in her even with this big uncomfortable bump in the way.

Olaf chuckled. “Don’t be jealous my pet,” He murmured, brushing her hair back over her shoulder with one hand, kissing the bare neck he found beneath tickling her skin with his stubble.

She batted him away and scratched her neck, the stubborn bristles irritating her skin. Everything felt so hypersensitive right now. “I just wish I could be there, you’ve worked so hard,” Violet complained with a sigh, pressing her hand to his chest.

“Next time you’ll be up there with me. Hmm?” Olaf tipped her chin up with his finger making her look at him. He _so_ wanted to share that feeling with her, when you got up on stage and the audience was hidden behind bright lights, your lines all stored and waiting at the tip of your tongue knowing exactly what to say, how to feel, where to stand to transport you to this otherworldly place you were portraying. It was thrilling, and exciting - especially now he was _actually_ having success. Focusing on theatres and not fires he found that his talent was even greater than he’d first thought.

“I think I’ll stick to inventing,” She smirked, shifting out his arms to wander to the back door hanging out of the doorway as she called the children inside. “Say goodnight, and go before you’re late for your own production.”

Olaf rolled his eyes, taking a deep breath and putting on a beaming smile as his boys careered up the porch steps into the kitchen. He swept up the youngest onto his arm and gave the boy a ruffle of the hair. “Night pipsqueak.” 

The boy wriggled until Olaf dropped him to the floor, whining at Violet with a childish pout. “Hey! Papa called me pipsqueak again!”

“Sorry. I’ll call you little squirt next time.” Olaf poked his tongue out playfully and Violet just shook her head at him. He could be so immature, which considering his age was quite the feat. Violet wondered when it would start to bother her more, the way it always seemed to bother other people. Sure, he was twice her age - at 25 this was one of the few years she could say that and it be accurate,but it wasn’t like they were the only mixed-age couple on the planet. She knew of a couple from the last baby group she did - both women, but who were more concerned with people knowing they were 20 years apart in age than the fact they were a same-sex couple. Perhaps this was just another new frontier people needed to get their head around.

“Bye Dad.” The eldest said, trying to be cool and grown up, fist bumping Olaf rather than going for a hug. Olaf just stared at the outstretched fist not knowing what the playground rules were for fist bumping or what on earth his son wanted him to do, so ignored it and sort of, patted his hand over the boys fist instead. The kid stared at him peculiarly. “You’re so uncool, you know that.”

“I wont be back till late. Look after your mother.” Olaf ignored the jibe and pointed at him, then at Violet as he retreated out the kitchen towards the front door.

“I love you!” Violet called just before she heard the front door slam, the sound bringing her back to the reality of climbing all those damn stairs to the kids bedrooms. Closing up the back door and sending the boys up ahead to change, Violet clung to the bannister and she hauled herself inelegantly up the steps one by one, the extra bump-weight on her otherwise petite frame making it a burdensome climb.

But by some form of miracle there were no meltdowns about toothpaste flavour or whose turn it was to choose a book, and Violet nestled herself in the cosy library armchair within half an hour, deciding for once to actually be selfish and just _sit._ She sighed gratefully at the silence as she eased against the back of the sofa chair, kicking off her sneakers to bring her feet up onto the stool letting her eyes fall shut.

She had not envisaged having three kids by 25, or graduating Prufrock only to come right back to Olaf’s house. It had been borne simply out of practicality to start with, thinking she would only stay as long as she had to do find a place of her own and file the damn divorce paperwork that had always appeared to elusive to find during the school holidays. Somehow it was far harder to get divorced than to get married, requiring solicitors and all sorts of things that a teenager couldn't really organise on their own. But that was then, and after a year and a half of failed dating and _still_ living with Olaf, the unthinkable had happened. Violet got a crush on the man, despite his trickery 5 years previously, here she was as an adult falling for him anyway. Damn fate had done a number on her.

She unwound the ribbon from her wrist, damp from doing the washing up and forgetting to take it off _again_ , she tucked it under her hair anyway and tied it into a bow. She closed her eyes to carry on thinking of baby diaper sanitary system she was working on - yet to make its way into blueprint, where one could deposit the stinking nappy, twist something and seal it off so the room didn't smell. She wanted to make something practical, and these were the problems that she came across nowadays. Violet yawned and shifted on the cushions, finding her concentration waning.

“Don’t scream Miss Baudelaire, if you do you’ll wake the children,” A sinister, low speaking voice said, forcing Violet awake with a start. She blinked, being pulled from her sleep before she was ready, tensing fearfully at the sight she saw. The Woman with Hair but no Beard stood at the foot of her stool, hands clasped naturally at her waist, dark glasses obscuring her eyes. She recognised her from the photograph in Olaf’s tower room, the hollow, cold expression was one Violet had never wanted to see in real life.

Violet shifted to sit up a little, but felt something sharp at her neck and her breath hitched. “And you wouldn't want that,” The Man with Hair but no Beard added in a menacing tone. Careful only to move her eyes and not her head, Violet turned to look to her side, where she found him standing aloofly behind the sofa chair, leaning round just enough to clutch a knife to her throat.

Her trembling hand moved instinctively to her baby, her heart pounding. There was little she could do but ask, “What do you want?”

“Call your husband,” The Woman with Hair but no Beard instructed, tossing a phone receiver in her lap, taking the other end of the long cord and plugging the extension into their house phone. “Call him home. We need to speak with him.”

Violet picked up the receiver and turned it over staring at the numbered buttons. The baby moved and she covered it with her hand, praying that the villains didn't notice. For as much as her pregnancy was nearly term and of course blindingly obvious even to the non-medically trained, seeing her belly move like there was a small alien inside her would only remind them of this extra life that they threatened right now. She dies, the baby dies. “He’s performing tonight. He’ll probably be on stage I don't know if he can even answer - “ She staid stumbling over her words.

The Man with a Beard and no Hair angled his wrist turning and scraping the sharp edge of the blade up and down her windpipe painfully. “If he wants his Volunteer wife alive when he gets home, he will come,” He reinforced with a small nick to her skin, making her yelp and whimper, the single bead of blood rolling down her neck. He sighed, disappointed. “And he used to be so obedient.”


	2. Chapter 2

“He never answers our calls,” The Woman with Hair but no Beard tsk’d through thin dry lips, as grey as the rest of her. Violet thought they looked like they had stepped right out of his photograph, dressed only in greyscale tones capable of fading into shadow if she looked away.

“Never does the missions assigned to him,” The other parried, their conversational ping-pong shooting back and for as if they shared one consciousness almost finishing each others sentences.

“He’s a liability,” She spat in a final condescending judgement.

Violet ground her teeth, keeping as still as possible. “He’s a Father! He doesn’t work for you anymore,” She protested, pressing her weight into her hands on the sides of the sofa chair, readying to stand or move away from the threat somehow. Olaf had explained a long time ago the plans that his side of the Schism had had - that they were the unlucky ones to be Orphaned first in a long line of Volunteer families. That had been her only stipulation after she decided that it wasn’t just wine and sex anymore - that they were _dating,_ that he abandon all activity and membership with VFD. No more fires, no more treachery.

She punched the buttons slowly and precisely, using the right combination at the end for the call to go through to the phone on stage door, which was as close to the stage as she could get, and just hoped someone would take the message to him. “The vows you take in the VFD are not for fun Miss Baudelaire, they're for life.” The Woman with Hair but no Beard folded her arms watching her with a hawk-like expression.

“Or until death,” The Man added. Violet felt the knife squeeze between the rings of cartilage in her throat and she sunk back into the sofa shakily putting the phone receiver to her ear listening to it ring. _Please, please answer_ , she sucked her lower lip in squeezing her eyes shut imagining the scene. All eyes would be on the stage, even from behind the sets and the curtains the other actors and stage hands would be listening to the script they too knew by heart, waiting for a particular line that would signal the end of the scene and a set change, or requirement of a spot light, or for another character to walk on. Nerves would be strung out, opening night was always a tense affair, the troupe holding a collective breath in their chest that would only relax once the curtain fell. “You of all people understand the price,” The Man hissed in her ear. No-one would be listening out for the phone.

She gasped as the line clicked and a voice answered the call. “Stage door, Theatre Royale!” He chirruped.

“Hey, Fernald its Violet,” Violet cleared her throat trying to keep the panic from her voice.

The Hook Handed Man leant back curling his feet off the desk to stand reaching up to a shelf, the small tv set that gave him a live feedback of what was happening on stage was in need of a whack to keep the picture from fuzzing. “Violet! Well howdy, Olaf’s doing great! I’m watching the internal video right now. They’re up to the forest scene.”

Violet stared determinedly at the Woman with Hair but no Beard, who eyed her with contempt. She had her hands around the phone wire ready to break the connection at the extension; Violet tried not to think about how many necks she had wrung and snapped with those hands. “I need you to get a message to Olaf.”

Fernald frowned. “Well he’s on stage right now but - “

“I’m in labour,” Violet cut in, whimpering through gritted teeth acting out a contraction. Perhaps she had picked up on a few things from being married to an actor, who often gave her no choice but to join in his acting lessons. The children loved it when he dressed up and put on a little play for them, acting out their story books with lively dedication she doubted any other husband would. It was then of course she ended up roped into it somehow, tying a tea-towel over her hair or donning a cape and laughing, watching the kids stare enraptured at their Father. “It’s going to be fast, he needs to get here …” She hated the narrow smirk that grew on The Womans face, witnessing her being forced to lie and use her vulnerability to call her husband home.

“Oh! Oh rightio - I’ll tell the understudy to get dressed up. Don’t you worry about a thing,” Fernald exclaimed, turning back and for frantically in his booth. “He’ll be with you in a jiffy, just hang on!” He put the phone down and grabbed the headset off his head tossing it carelessly as he leapt for the door getting tangled in the cable, climbing free of it hurriedly and bolting up the stairs to the stage. 

Violet took the phone away from her ear, hanging up the call and offering it back to The Woman.“He’s coming.” Why did she look so victorious? It made Violet bunch her lipsin frustration.

“You didn't tell him that we are here. Curious.”

Violet screwed her features tightly. “If my husband knew you were threatening me he would spend the drive plotting and not pay attention to the road,” Violet answered mechanically, distracted by the building pressure in her lower abdomen. Damn she needed the bathroom. Every time the baby swam and shifted, he or she nudged her bladder like it was a bouncy cushion and she felt like she was going to wet herself.

An uncomfortable silence hung heavily in the room, The Woman with Hair but no Beard standing impossibly still, Violet wondered if she was even a living, breathing thing. There was no outward sign of life and the grey-ness acted only to give her the visage of a statue, left standing forgotten in a park somewhere, everyone walking past it on their way never stopping to see who the statue was of. The knife at least at lost its pressure a little, the cold metal had warmed from lying against her skin and though it moved ever so slightly as The Man with a Beard but no Hair adjusted his arm, his other hand now gripped her shoulder for added effect - as if readying himself to Olaf’s arrival.

Violet wasn’t paying attention to any of these things however. She covered the top of her tummy with her hand, closing her eyes and squeezing her legs tightly as a creeping pain slowly encircled her, the muscles around her swollen tummy clenching for a few moments and releasing again. It wasn’t enough to be obvious, there was nothing to physically see anyway. Like the wind, contractions were invisible, noticeable only by the force they exerted on other things. Her breathing. Her expression. Her hands balling into fists. Luckily it would be while before it came to that.

The door burst open, Olaf’s eyes searching frantically left and right as he shut the front door and hurried through the house. “Violet!” He called urgently, he didn't know how long it had been or if she had held out before calling for him - she must have because she knew the importance of tonights big performance and how many critics had flocked to see his good looks on stage once again.

“Library!” She replied, glancing between her captors.

His mind hurried through the list he had memorised of birthing bag and contents, smacking his temple punishing himself for not recalling it as well as he could recall his lines, grabbing for a pen and paper off the hall table. “How far apart are they? How long have you - “ He careered to a halt, the sight before him summoning a murderous intent that had been locked safely away. “Get away from my wife,” Olaf snarled, shoving the paper in his pocket but keeping a hold of the pen, no longer a tool for scribing timings of contractions, but a weapon. His lips curled as though an animal baring its teeth.

“Olaf. So good to see you,” The Woman with Hair but no Beard opened her arms welcoming him to the room.

Violet winced a little, leaning away from the feeling as The Man with a Beard but no Hair dug his fingers deeper into her collar bone. “Its been a long time.” He said, enjoying the sight of Olaf suspended still, no longer animated and bright but quiet, a simpering darkness creeping back into his eyes.

“Not long enough,” Olaf snapped. “Now, step _away_.”

The Woman with Hair but no Beard paced toward him a few steps, as if she was showing good on his request. “We only wish to talk with you Olaf. Theres no need for threats.”

“We haven't harmed her, or the baby,” The Man with a Beard but no Hair made clear, twisting the knife slowly to and fro, scraping her skin as though a barber working a close shave. Violet’s chest tightened, trying to swallow down a whine. She didn't want these people to see her as weak, as easy to murder as her parents. Would they know what to do? Would that have taught her tactics for this sort of thing, should they have lived? Her eyes begged Olaf for help. “See for yourself.” The Man gestured with the knife that Olaf could approach, tucking it immediately back under her chin.

Olaf didn't wait a beat, rushing to her side practically skidding as he fell to his knees next to her. “Are you alright?” She could hear the worry in his voice, though it was well masked behind tight control. Olaf brushed his fingers under her hair coming to the nape of her neck, his other hand simultaneously feeling over her bump possessively. The weight of the responsibility settled in his heart. “Is everything - ?” He asked quietly, glaring daggers at The Man standing behind her and the sofa chair, _looming_ observing everything about their interaction. He was the magnifying glass, that The Man with a Beard but no Hair could stare through to focus the beam and set his family alight. Olaf knew any thing he said or did now was being meticulously remembered and recorded for potential use later. He couldn't be too familiar with her, too gentle, they would only see something to manipulate, call him pathetic for ending up loving the Baudelaire heiress he let live.

Violet nodded. “Yes, just uncomfortable.”

“The boys?” Olaf exhaled slowly, easing back and sliding his hands from her as he stood. He heard something upstairs, a stirring. He didn't glance or turn his head to the sound. Olaf knew every creak of this house even after all their renovations, which room the sound belonged to, and whose feet could be creeping down the hall.

“Asleep.” She assured him, a silent exchange passing between them. One of the boys was awake.

The Woman with Hair but no Beard looked as though she had paled, if that were possible, their tender exchange making her feel nauseous. “Yes, how many is that now? Four?” She drawled.

“Three,” Olaf corrected, gesturing to his wife and the expectant third.

“Quite the clan.” She rolled her eyes, pacing a few steps and turning front on to them again. “I hope to see you bring them along one day,” The Woman focused the thinly veiled suggestion towards Violet. She was the one that was the Volunteer, the _distraction_ that had pulled Olaf from his responsibilities for too long. His fascination with the Baudelaires had been his downfall after all.

“You’re never getting near my children!” Violet retaliated defensively, leaning on the arms of the chair to sit forward, get up, throwing her fist behind her trying to knock his arm away. The Woman with Hair but no Beard laughed at the pitiful attempt, the mewl of pain she heard beautiful and weak as the Baudelaire girl caught herself on the knife, her colleague able to easily subdue her with a light slide of the blade, cutting her skin. 

Olaf lunged for The Man without thought, _they were hurting her, hurting his family_ and there was no fucking way he was going to let them poison his happiness, polluting his world with spyglasses and codes and murder. Deception and defence were one thing, but the Schism and their world of theft and villainy was no longer his. Ironically, Violet had saved him from all of that. “No - Olaf!” She cried out, for The Man dug his fingers into her hair and held fast despite Olaf’s attack, grabbing by the ridiculous scruff of material at his neck. Olafs arm drawn back about to punch him, but in doing so the knife was moving and catching her throat as she was being wrenched back. As soon as Olaf realised what Violet meant he jumped back again, his hands twitching at his sides threateningly.

Her eyes widened, sitting back into the sofa chair panting. There was something wet underneath her.

The Man shook his shoulders righting his jacket and straightening, the triumphant curl to the corner of his lips building a hatred in Olaf, that could drive him to murder this man right here in his home if he had to. “This visit is merely a warning. Resume your activities or find yourself blacklisted along with the Volunteers,” The Woman with Hair but no Beard announced, her voice as lifeless as the Volunteer families she had already got her hands on. There was no second guessing what it meant, to be their enemy.

The Man with a Beard but no Hair’s deep voice passed judgement. “If you're not with us you're against us, Olaf.”

Olaf caught a glimpse of movement out the corner of his eye, a small figure cast in shadow that slipped through the bannister rails and hopped down behind the hall table, creeping silently towards the doorway.

The Man continued, “If we are forced to intervene again, we will take one of the children as insurance.”

“No - ! Olaf do something!” Violet cried out, scrabbling in the chair despite the faint lacerations on her neck and the danger of moving at all, this couldn't happen, not now not _ever._ They murdered her parents and stole her childhood, there was no way they would get near her children, her family she had worked so hard to nurture and protect. She kept them away from VFD, from the eye insignia, from all of it - they were product of two prominent families, Olaf’s and hers. She didn't want their lives blighted by knowing the future VFD would want for the them. 

“I’m not going to do anything, my sweet,” Olaf said in an odd, calm voice. He moved his eyes slowly to the boy, moving silent through the doorway, their eyes locking. “Stay where you are.”

Her mind reeled. What was he saying? Violet writhed a little more in the chair, her contractions starting to pulse. _Of all the times for this to start_ she groaned inwardly; the adrenaline stressing her body must have kicked it off a few weeks early. How could she give him another child when he just accepted that these awful people could kidnap his child, their child at any moment. She would never be able to relax again. “He just said he’s going to take one of the children! You cant let them do that you cant let them near us Olaf please you promised me this was never going to happen!” Violet screamed at him, fearful tears threatening in her eyes. This couldn't be happening.

“Promises, promises,” The Woman with Hair but no Beard cackled in a low, amused voice, shaking her head at Violet. _What a waste_.

Olaf stepped close to Violets side, looking at neither The Man, the Woman, or Violet. “When I count to 3, I want you to close your eyes. Violet, do you understand?” He instructed her carefully, nodding to the boy now only a few metres from The Woman, clutching the exact things that Olaf had told him to.

“What - why?” Violet stared at Olaf in disbelief.

“1 -“ He began to count, trying to give his son enough strength to do what needed to be done. 

“Don’t play games Olaf, this isn’t one of your ridiculous plays,” The Man with a Beard but no Hair scoffed. “We could kill your wife right now if we wanted. Burn this house to the ground. You have important work to do Olaf, you’ve grown distant, distracted.”

“2…” Olaf counted again, ignoring The Man. He slipped his hand into his trouser pocket, retrieving the pen, keeping it hidden in his hand.

The Woman sighed at him. “Such an embarrassment. I thought you would have more dignity that dress up on stage like - ”

“3!” Olaf yelled, throwing his body over Violets catching himself on the other side of the chair so as not to actually land on her, but guard her body with his own.

A sound blew behind the Woman with Hair but no Beard, a burst of flames erupting that shot toward her cloak igniting the material in a sudden rush of heat. Olaf covered Violet with his body still until the flame burst stopped, taking the momentary lapse of the Man with a Beard but no Hairs concentration who stared stunned at his companion going up in flames. Olaf grabbed his wrist and wrench the knife away from this wife neck, instead stabbing his pen through the Mans wrist. The Man groaned, his fingers releasing as tendons snapped, the knife dropping to the floor with a clatter.

The Woman screamed and span around wildly, seeing the flames lick up the back of her and rush round her body, the material not just ugly but ironically highly flammable. “You imbecile!” She shrieked. The Man with a Beard but no Hair dragged himself and his bleeding wrist around the sofa towards her, tearing off his cloak in an attempt to bat the flames out.

Violet defied her husband opening her eyes, the sound almost blood curdling. She gasped, their eldest boy stood smiling at his father, his arms held up poised with a can of aerosol and a lighter pointed right at the Woman. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm clearly incapable of writing a one-shot. It became two parts and now … I feel like it needs a third part to resolve things …!


	3. Chapter 3

Violet groaned, doubling over and wrapping her arm over the pain encircling her belly, as if she could shield herself from it, from everything that was happening. It had meant to be a relaxing evening; read a book, work on her invention idea, close her eyes for half an hour and enjoy the silence in the house. She rubbed the heel of her hand over one eye then the other, holding back her fearful tears as they were replaced with shock. Her eldest, those hazelnut eyes gazing at his father still so full of hope for his praise, though she could see him shaking at his own actions. He tossed his overgrown honey brown hair out of his eyes as he stumbled out of the way. The Woman with Hair but no Beard staggered past directionless, a dervish that spun out of control as panic engulfed her along with the flames he had created.

Olaf shepherd the Woman with Hair but no Beard and the Man with a Beard but no Hair towards the front door, ripping the eagle whistle from around the Mans neck as he threw the door open. He wouldn’t be a father if he would let one of those beasts swoop down and snatch his child from the damn park one day. “I think thats your cue to exit stage right -“ Olaf waved his arm in a mocking of the usually polite gesture, giving the pair good hard shove out the door.

“Don’t think this is over Olaf,” The Man with a Beard but no Hair warned, attempting to pat out the flames wrapping his clock around the other, difficult with only one working hand. His impaled wrist clutched uselessly to his middle, the pen still stuck nestled between muscles and sinew and bone.

Olaf scoffed at him. “Take this as _your_ warning, my family and I are in the unique position of straddling both sides of your Schism, making us twice as able to defend ourselves. Which you have just experienced.” He flicked his gaze behind him, giving his boy a thumbs up and a wink.

The Woman with Hair but no Beard coughed and waved her hand wafting the rising smoke out of her face, the fires now all but extinguished, the pain of which was only just starting to creep in as nerves flickered under the undoubtedly burnt patches of skin. “The boy shows promise,” She said casting her eyes past Olaf. He would be the one to keep an eye on, to snatch when the time came. An apprentice to fulfil what Olaf could not. 

Olaf saw what she was doing, where she was looking and stepped right in her line of vision cutting off any ideas she might be getting. “I’m not a Volunteer.” He said darkly.  “I know how this game works and I know your secrets. You wont get near my family,” snarled Olaf, his brow knitting tightly as he glared at them both, these vestiges of a past he would rather forget existed. He was content, happy with his theatrical success and his growing family, sons to carry his title and his name and to pass on the wisdom his father and taught him; a wife to hold and love and _fuck_. 

These villains had preyed on his depression and listless wanderings, but Violet had pulled him back. He wouldn’t let the cycle repeat itself. “Now, _get out_.” Olaf stepped out the doorway and shoved them both again, his eyes flashing wickedly watching them realise the drop as they tumbled backwards down the porch steps into a painful, humiliating heap. Olaf knew he shouldn't have enjoyed that, but he did. He smirked triumphantly, and turned on his heel with a flourish, slamming the front door behind him.

About to launch into a self-praising monologue reciting the wondrous virtues he had just displayed, that his lovely young wife would undoubtedly adore, his mouth paused agape when he saw her face. Violet looked angry. “A lighter? Really?” She demanded, shifting forward on the sofa chair finally free to move without a knife at her throat. “After everything that happened you give our son a lighter?” She said incredulously, her tone rising. Olaf’s arms flopped to his sides, giving up on any idea he was about to get praised for rescuing her. “Give it to me sweetie you shouldn't be playing with that,” Violet held her hand out requesting the objects from her son. How had he known to blow the aerosol deodorant and set it alight? That was something immature teenagers did in the park not her 6 year old boy and not directly at another person. 

The boy slapped the can of deodorant in her open palm but refused to hand over the silver lighter. “But Dad gave it to me its mine!” He protested, rubbing his thumb familiarly over the circular symbol.

Olaf ground his teeth as he realised the game was up. For all his secrets, this was probably the thing he had felt the most guilt for - hiding something from his pretty wife, knowing the disappointment he would see in her eyes when she learned the truth. But he couldn't help but feel the way he did. “Keeping them ignorant can’t last forever, Violet,” Olaf growled, ruffling the boys hair and looping his arm around the boys shoulders pulling him to his waist. He knew what it felt like the first time you flicked that lighter on for real, his son would need the reassuring touch.

“Dad taught me how to use it safely, I’m not a baby -“ He yelled, clutching the thing tightly in his hand, gazing up at his father for help. “Tell her!” 

Violet tried to suppress the increasingly unsubtle tightenings over her belly. _No, it was too early. It was just those, practice ones that get your pelvis loose and moving. Braxton Hicks._ Violet closed her eyes for a moment, determined to carry on. This was too important to ignore; she had to explain to their son it wasn’t right what he did, how dangerous it was and make him promise he’ll never do anything like it again.

“Its alright. You did everything just right,” Olaf hushed him, picking the boy up under his arms, glad he was still small enough to do so. He hooked his arms under the boys hips and cradled him at his waist, unable to subdue the smile seeing how excited his kid was.  

“Did you see me? I was like, take that ugly hair!” The boy acted out, his legs swinging either side of Olaf’s hips enjoying the closeness being in fathers strong arms. “And I pressed the thingy and it was all whoosh - ! It was soo much bigger than when we practiced!” He laughed happily, throwing his arms around his fathers neck for a hug.

Violet was desperate to intervene. Practiced? They’d done this before? Olaf had what, given their son lessons in starting fires? She felt a panic rising up her spine that hadn’t appeared since she was that 14 year old girl being forced into signing a piece of paper. Was this a rouse all along? She groaned inwardly again, biting back the sound. It was just the contractions making her think funny, he would never plot like that. _He did plot like that_ when she and her siblings were younger. Tears threatened in her eyes again. “Olaf ..,” Her voice whimpered, but he didn't hear her.

“I’m proud of you,” Olaf grinned, turning and swinging his hips making the boy jump about and dance in his arms, the kid laughing. Olaf bopped him on the nose and whispered, “No matter what your mother says.” He looked to Violet, wondering about her lack of reproach. Something wasn’t right. “But better I keep this for now,” Olaf conceded, the boy not fighting when he took it. “ _I’ll put it back in the secret place_ ,” He assured him quietly, letting his arms loose a little to let him slip down and carefully putting him back on his feet.

“Who _were_ those people?” The boy asked curiously.

Violet shook her head at him, as he came over to her. “Olaf, no …,”

“They need to know. He's old enough to know.” He sat on the creaky little footstool unsure if it would hold for a whole person, but sat anyway. He rested his hand on his wife’s ankle, giving it a rub. They should have had this conversation a long time ago. He had respected her wishes, until recently, and to some extent understood them. But there was different ways to do things, and now it was the turn of doing things _his way_. 

“Not yet, not now.” She shook her head still, covering her face with her hand. She couldn't concentrate for the mounting pain. She had to have her wits about her if they were to have this conversation.

Olaf wasn’t going to let it drop. He knew he was right and wasn’t about to apologise for making his son prepared for the world ahead of him. “Yes, now! Now is perfect … don’t fob me off with those big _sad eyes_ of yours. The boy’s capable, smart, if I’m not here he needs to know how to look after you and his brother.”

“Thats not his job!” Violet fought back, pushing her fringe out of her eyes. She unwound the ribbon from her hair, it was loose and unkempt and needed to do it again tidily if she was about to go into labour. “My mother told me the same thing and I couldn’t do it Olaf, I couldn't protect them and it broke me - “ Olaf’s chest twinged. She never spoke about her mother, their past or their awkward _how did you guys meet!_ story. She just wanted to forget that part, focus on the now, their lives together, the children. Once or twice she had made up a sweeter story when friends has asked the question at dinner or at mums playgroups, and felt guilty for it every time. But their past was theirs to own. It wasn’t gossip for the uninitiated. “He’s just a child!” 

Olaf knew it must be painful enough a sight for her to have brought it up. She was scared, yes, they had threatened her and the kids and put a knife to her throat but without the boy it could’ve turned out a whole lot worse. Wasn’t that proof he was right? “A child who basically just saved your life. I know you have a ‘ _thing’_ about fires - “

“ - With good reason,” She cut in, glaring.

Olaf slipped from the footstool to kneel before her, almost begging her to be willing. “But with my genes and your genes the boy is _perfect_ … he can put _my_ skills to noble intentions!” He said, sounding almost fanatical. “He literally just did!” Olaf urged her, his hand roaming protectively over his child still swaddled safely in her belly. “Let me teach them.” Violet gazed at him, the grey eyes so full off life she could almost see the dancing of lights behind his eyes, a thousand ideas sparking in his mind. 

He sounded exactly like those militant VFD members he had spoken of.

If she gave the green light, their house would become full of codexes and secret messages, spyglasses and disguises and things she had never gotten to the bottom of herself, and never wished to. She remembered the day Mr Poe took them to the burnt out ruins of their home, Klaus finding half a spyglass and pocketing it for future research. She remembered finding the same one amongst Olaf’s possessions in the tower room and seeking answers, only to flail her hands at him to stop, changing her mind half way through his story.

Violet waved her son over to them, who stood a few metres away looking awkward. They were fighting and he was watching and it wasn’t fair. “Come here,” She smiled gently, and the boy gladly ran over hopping on the arm of the sofa, snuggling into a small gap on the sofa chair with her. She kissed his forehead and smoothed his hair comfortingly; he was alright, _they were alright_. “Don’t worry about anything for tonight. I love you,” She gave him a small squeeze, planting the boys curiosity.

“Muuuuuum….!” He wriggled with a pretend whine.

Olaf smiled at the pair of them. Violet was right of course. _Not now._ This was a conversation to be had in private, with clearer heads. 

She shifted uncomfortably, grabbing forward onto Olaf’s shoulder trying to heave herself to her feet. “Geez the timing of this conversation could not be worse,” She muttered, reaching now with her arms aloft like a child. “Help me up,” She said, only to drop one arm again bracing against the sofa through the contraction. 

Olaf’s focus switched immediately. He wasn’t seeing things, was he? This looked a hell of a lot like labour, but that had just been a rouse to get him home. “You uhh, you alright my pet?” His voice sounded worried, unsure. He looped his forearms under her armpits and helped her to her feet, hooking one arm then around her back and taking her hand with the other. She staggered a step and gave him a look, that look that explained everything he needed to know.

It was something he could never describe to anyone, the way a thousand emotions all melted together during these moments. The fear of what was happening, knowing she would have to push out a watermelon very soon; the inevitability of it, the waves of pain that crashed and didn't go away no matter how much pain relief you took (or didn’t). There was love, knowing the moment had come to meet this little person they had created in a moment of passion, unable to pinpoint which; when they fucked outside against the tree, the bark scratching her thighs, or on the kitchen floor after a dinner party (which was around the right time if you used the calendar to count) or in bed, a glass of wine and candles on one of those rare monday nights when the theatre was closed and they had a quiet evening alone.

But there was also the daggers she glared at him with, that he always saw and always smirked at. He knew what she wanted to say in jest. _You did this to me!_ Labour made women wild.

“Mum you’ve had a wee!” The child giggled, jumping out off the sofa his face looking disgusted at the wet patch on the sofa chair.

Violet couldn't help but laugh. “Call your Uncle Klaus,” She panted to her son, pointing into the hall and the phone. He looked confusedly at her, then his father. It was the middle of the night. She looked sort of ill and had wet herself and she wanted him to wake up their Uncle? To say what?

Olaf grinned wolfishly. “Its showtime.”


End file.
